Tuesday, 4 May 2010

Down along the Bay in the grey mud flats the Black-Necked Stilts are foraging.They stalk gracefully on their long jointed stick legs,Pausing to peck and dip at the mud,

Surveying enquiringly for small fish, tadpoles, tiny mollusks washed in and left behind by the receding tide.Occasionally one dips, plunges.Above the Bay the dawn is a blue steel stain within which begin to spread blots of pink and pearl grey.

Estuaries, tide pools, salt ponds, mud and alkali flats, flooded fieldsAre places in which the old person now repeatedly dreams.Remembering to forget will perhaps be more difficult in the afterlife though the turnings of the tide, though

The turnings of the tide,The turnings of the tide, They were meant to bring something.

A wandering and frequent intermission of attentionIn which ideas slip irretrievably awayWould have something merciful in it

Were a few scraps or grubs of useful knowledge to remain aliveWashed in among the daily flotsam and jetsamTo be plucked from the mud flats of the dilapidated mind.

And then there are the creatures of flooded places: perhaps of this, perhaps of another lifeStalking along the margins of the water, stooping to feed, if they can remember,They can still remember.

Remembering to forget will perhaps be more difficult in the afterlife though the turnings of the tide, though The turnings of the tide, The turnings of the tide.

What you’ve done in making the birds speak -- for themselves and for us –- is remarkable and very touching. Even though these are still images, the movement (which I can watch for hours) of these amazing creatures, on sand and in water in the clear blue light, suggests their thoughts, which you’ve taken down diligently. I can’t pick out a favorite line or section; it flows so naturally. However, “A wandering and frequent intermission of attention/In which ideas slip irretrievably away/Would have something merciful in it/Were a few scraps or grubs of useful knowledge to remain alive”, will stay with me for a long time.

In fact it appears from the middle three photos they are mirroring if not actually looking at themselves.

Actually the poem is the shipwreck of a longer meditation on that subject dear to the hearts of Old Bores, memory loss; there were various and sundry excursions into trace-memory, flashbulb memory, & c., and the several vanishings of same, with elaborations naturally.

(Would tell you more about this fascinating oeuvre but I've entirely forgotten the details, of course.)

I like the exact pelican count. Reminds me of the Keats bit about shutting the eyes of his fairy lady with "kisses four" ("why four because I wish to restrain the headlong impetuosity of my Muse, she would have fain said 'score'... suppose I would have said 'seven', there would have been three and a half apiece...")

Memory loss is a multivalent subject and not the reserve of old bores. (Said in defense of middle-aged and younger bores, I guess.) And if one has a sense of humor, at least there are things to laugh about and share in its insidious neighborhood.

A couple of “professionals” have advised me that if you can remember that you’ve forgotten something, it’s much better than if you can’t. (Cold comfort I know, and I was a paying customer.)

That being said, Elvis sang “I forgot to remember to forget”. That must count for something.